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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365147">so very blue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/takecourage/pseuds/takecourage'>takecourage</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>reel around [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pyromania, Unresolved Emotional Tension, general Peter Jakes related bullshit, i say mild i mean he blackmails a judge, mild acts of corrupt copper-ing, the worst car journey of Fred Thursday's entire life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:35:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,053</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/takecourage/pseuds/takecourage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His name's Morse. Like the code.</p><p>Peter already hates him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>reel around [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915942</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so very blue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His name’s Morse. Like the code.</p><p>Peter already hates him.</p><p>It doesn’t help that Thursday is so instantly enamoured with him, already offering him Peter’s old job as his bagman within five minutes. That sets Peter’s blood boiling — he had to work for that, to earn his keep and prove himself and, you know, actually become a detective sergeant, something this <em>college boy</em> is very clearly not. And it’s not like Peter still wants to be Thursday’s bagman, it really isn’t. He honestly doesn’t miss it at all. Really. But he just wants to know <em>why</em>. What’s so special about Morse bloody Code over there that Fred Thursday, of all people, is bending over backwards to find excuses for him and let him carry on with his insane theories? He works late and looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in a while and wears really cheap suits. Call him crazy, but Peter really can’t see the appeal.</p><p>Which is until <em>the incident</em>. Or, Thursday very obviously beating the living daylights out of a witness and Morse Code saying he never laid a finger on him. He’d never known someone get fired, quit, and get their job back in the same day. It’s quite impressive, actually. And quite funny. Strange regales the full story to him in the pub and he has Peter’s full attention, which is rare. He doesn’t normally drink with the uniforms, but if Strange can give him some good gossip he can casually drop it into conversation with the man he just so happens to know is in the running for Chief Superintendent, and who just so happens to have walked through the door about five minutes ago.</p><p>College Boy solves the case no problem, because of course he does, and then the killer hangs herself in her cell. Textbook bedsheet noose and all. Apparently, he was devastated — he likes opera, for whatever reason, and she, as Strange intelligently put, sung it. Peter has never understood why people pretend to enjoy opera. Just because it’s expensive and foreign doesn’t mean it’s any good.</p><p>He doesn’t particularly mean to discreetly flip through the case file one night, but he does anyway. He’s intrigued, that’s all. See what College Boy in all his infinite wisdom got up to on his little adventures.</p><p>A fifteen year old girl, groomed by the husband and murdered by the wife. His hands shake as he lights a cigarette, inhales deeply, and carries on reading. A student, her boyfriend, shot dead by the wife and made to look like a suicide. The apparent sister of the girl, now revealed to be the mother, beating the girl’s father into a coma with a crowbar. He reads the reason why and decides to pay her visit.</p><p>He tracks down a constable who owes him a favour and haggles his way into five minutes alone with her. She’s awaiting trial, which as he finds out is much sooner than he thought the Oxford legal system capable of, being held in the nick. She sits opposite Peter, worrying a spot on the table between them with bitten fingernails. Her hair is lank and her eyes are tired, but defiant all the same. He likes the set of her jaw and the square of her shoulders. Very don’t-fuck-with-me. He respects that.</p><p>“Smoke?” He offers the pack towards her and she takes one, eyes narrowing slightly. He lights it for her and then one of his own.</p><p>“What’s this about?” She asks, her eyes flicking towards the door, towards the ceiling, over her shoulder.</p><p>“The… attack on Mr Samuels.” He keeps his voice level, professional.</p><p>“I already said I done it.” She says bluntly, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.</p><p>“And that you’d do it again.” He really doesn’t blame her. He’d do it himself, given half a chance.</p><p>“So why’re you here?”</p><p>“I think,” he says, taking a slow drag of his cigarette, barely able to keep the smile out of his voice, “that you acted in self-defence.”</p><p>Her eyes narrow again, but this time in confusion.</p><p>“One hell of a reduced sentence,” he continues, “couple of years for assault, instead of life for GBH.” He pauses, letting her consider. “And I’m owed a favour.” The truth is slightly less <em>favour</em> and slightly more <em>blackmail, </em>but she doesn’t have to know that.</p><p>“What do you want?” She says nervously, but she’s looking only at him.</p><p>“Nothing,” he says simply. She bites her lip, and he leans towards her, speaking fast and low. “Samuels was a scumbag, he had it coming to him. Now, we can’t exactly say it was accident, but you claim self-defence and let me handle the rest.”</p><p>She stares down at the table for a while, then back at him, nibbling on her lip, wary and conflicted, but eventually starts nodding.</p><p> </p><p>The constable gives him a look as he comes out the room with a massive grin on his face. “With all due respect, Sir, I’m not doing this again,” he says, voice trembling despite the bravado in his stance.</p><p>Peter just lightly slaps him on the cheek a couple of times. “Course not. Just between us.”</p><p> </p><p>He knocks on the door of Judge Stenham’s massive, beautiful house the next evening, dressed to kill. Even with Dorothea Frazil’s help, he couldn’t afford to eat for a week and a half after buying this suit. He discreetly scrounged off Thursday for days until he got found out; his wife, Win, shoved about five containers of stew at him one morning and he very nearly cried.</p><p>The judge himself answers, which is a good sign. He’s an intimidating man, almost a full head taller than Peter and heavyset, but he’s clearly alone and drinking, which gives Peter an edge he wouldn’t have if he went knocking on his office door.</p><p>“Evening, sir,” he says, voice soft and dangerous.</p><p>Stenham is visibly confused, but there’s the tiniest glimmer of recognition in his eye, a twitch of a muscle in his jaw. He was in Samuels’ expansive pocket for years, they all were, but this just might give him something a little more. “Sergeant… Jones, is it?”</p><p>Given the circumstances, he sees no reason to correct the Judge, nodding curtly. “Can I come in?”</p><p>The Judge blinks a couple of times, but leads him through to the living room anyway, every inch of it exquisitely decorated in cream and gold and deep red, paintings of haughty men covered in medals adorning the walls. Unbidden, the image of taking a match to the dark velvet curtains and their golden tassels springs to his mind, the flames consuming them whole, burning brilliantly and furiously. God, the entire room would go up in <em>seconds</em> — the idea terrifies him and excites him all at the same time.</p><p>“I must say,” Stenham says, jerking Peter out of his reverie, as he lowers himself down onto a plush, cream sofa, taking a delicate crystal glass a quarter filled with amber liquid in his stubby hand. “This is highly unusual.” His hand shakes slightly as he gestures for Peter to sit down.</p><p>Peter stays standing, relishing in the fact his cool confidence seems to have unsettled the judge slightly. He must already know. Even better. “So sorry to disturb you.” He glances about the room. “Your wife not in?” He makes it sound like a threat.</p><p>“No. Visiting her sister.”</p><p>“I see.” He watches Stenham take a slow sip of his drink, and lick his lips, chasing any leftover booze. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he already feels slightly drunk with the rush of it all. He falls silent, watching him like a hawk, until the Judge’s expression shifts from curious to irritated.</p><p>“What do you want, Jones? I’m a busy man.”</p><p>Empty house, half-empty bottle, empty words. He nearly laughs. Clearly very busy indeed.</p><p>“Teddy Samuels. He a friend of yours?”</p><p>The glass in his hand briefly trembles at the mention of Samuels. “Never heard of him, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Funny that your name should be written all over his… guest lists, then, isn’t it?” It’s a complete stab in the dark, but Stenham’s face changes colour three times in as many seconds and that’s all the confirmation he needs.</p><p>“Be very careful, Sergeant, or you’ll end up saying something you regret,” he murmurs darkly.</p><p>His words sends a thrill up Peter’s spine. “Are you threatening me, sir?”</p><p>“Are you?”</p><p>“Well, things wouldn’t look too good for you if it was made public, would it?” He speaks carefully, deliberately, every word heavy but clear.</p><p>“I don’t know what it is you think you’re doing, but you need to leave. Now.” His tone is a shade too panicked, too frayed to hold any true weight.</p><p>“You know exactly what I’m doing.” He stands perfectly still, voice perfectly casual, power and control incarnate.</p><p>He pales, then flushes bright red, a vein jumping along his temple. “You have thirty seconds to get off my property or, or—” he starts to rise, the springs in the sofa creaking.</p><p>“Or what? You’ll call the police?” His voice drips with venom, so mocking and so cold the Judge freezes in place. “I <em>am</em> the police.”</p><p>“You have no proof<em>—</em>”</p><p>“Don’t I?” He steadily holds Stenham’s gaze, slowly lighting a cigarette. “Witnesses, both the girls and some of your <em>mates</em>, not to mention your name written all over Samuels’ little diaries. More than enough.”</p><p>Stenham’s shoulders drop and he sags back into the sofa, the springs groaning in chorus. “What do you want?”</p><p>“There’ll be a girl coming your way, Sharon Veelie. GBH with intent. I reckon you’ll find her innocent.” The Judge sinks down lower into the cushions and Peter feels <em>powerful</em>, like there’s fire licking through his veins. He’s won.</p><p>“Your girlfriend, I suppose?” He mutters bitterly.</p><p>He says nothing, just raises an eyebrow.</p><p>A silence, charged and heavy. Peter doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, he won’t be the first to crack. The longer he stands in front of this, this <em>lowlife</em>, the angrier he gets; Mary Tremlett was fifteen, and her friends might’ve been younger. He makes his mind up. Frazil is about to get herself a cover story.</p><p>“I never… I never <em>touched</em>…” The man is pathetic. Disgusting and pathetic.</p><p>He takes a drag, letting the smoke say <em>I don’t believe you</em>.</p><p>Stenham sighs, running a clammy hand through his hair. “If I… arrange this, you won’t…”</p><p>“No press,” he lies.</p><p>“My wife…”</p><p>“Doesn’t have to know.” He pauses, letting his words hang in the air between them. “I don’t want to tell her, but I will.”</p><p>“Fine,” he says, dropping his head into his hands, defeated. “Fine.”</p><p>Peter allows himself a quick, satisfied smile when the judge isn’t looking.</p><p>“Now, get <em>out</em>.”</p><p>The Honourable Judge Stenham — not quite so honourable now — all but throws him out the door, and he’s grinning giddily the whole way home.</p><p> </p><p>It’s only as he’s on his fourth beer, stretched out like a cat on his sofa, and the adrenaline fizzling out of his veins that he realises what he’s done. He’s blackmailed a judge. If anyone found out, he’d lose his job, at the very best. At worst, he’d be thrown in prison before he could say <em>guilty</em>. Jesus, if Fred Thursday found out, he’d probably get shot at dawn. He knows he shouldn’t have done it, but he can’t bring himself to regret it even a little. Samuels deserved what he got, and Sharon was entirely justified in giving it to him. And if Peter had to pull a few strings to do right by her, then so be it. Even if he wasn’t exactly involved in the case, it felt like he was doing right by Mary Tremlett as well. She was just a kid, and even if he doesn’t understand opera or the appeal of crossword puzzles, he understands that well enough.</p><p>He sets the now-empty bottle down on the floor beside him as the distant bells faintly strike seven, and smiles to himself. It’s time to give Dorothea Frazil a call.</p><p> </p><p>Sharon Veelie gets fined fairly heavily for vandalism — apparently smashing up a Jaguar can’t really be claimed as self-defence — but otherwise walks free. The Oxford Mail has a field day and Thursday goes on the warpath. Peter keeps his head down for a few days and sends half of what Frazil gave him for the (very confidential) details to Sharon. Hopefully it’ll ease things up for her.</p><p>And, unfortunately, College Boy sticks around, now officially Thursday’s bagman. Peter doesn’t want to say it isn’t fair — he’s not a child. But it <em>isn’t</em>. Luckily, everyone seems to be on his side about it. It should’ve been him again, properly this time. He barely had it before Lott swooped in, like the oversized vulture he was. Peter Jakes, shoved to one side again. What a fucking surprise.</p><p> </p><p>The new Chief Superintendent is in the middle of introducing himself as Bright (<em>Bwight</em> might be slightly more accurate), and Peter is in the middle of kicking himself for buttering up the wrong man, when College Boy stumbles through the door, all cheap, wrinkled suit, uncombed hair, and wide eyes, looking a bit like a startled deer. Peter looks him up and down and nearly smirks. He’ll have his job back in no time. <em>Bwight </em>does much the same, before immediately declaring he’s putting the station on notice.</p><p>“I do not propose to speak ill of my predecessor, but where there are breaches of procedure or Spanish practices…” He sniffs contemptuously. “You will find me a horse of a very different colour.”</p><p>Peter’s instant reaction to that is <em>oh shit</em>, but keeps his expression blank and tries very hard not to look at Thursday.</p><p>“That said,” <em>Bwight </em>says, lighter now, “I want you to regard my appointment as a <em>tabula rasa</em>. A clean slate,” he clarifies for the uneducated scum in the room, Peter clearly included. “You play fair by me, then I will play fair by you. Carry on.”</p><p>The room relaxes as <em>Bwight</em> breezes off towards his office, probably to recite the Latin alphabet backwards or polish the medal they give you for being born rich.</p><p>“Around and around the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran,” Peter grins, taking a drag of his cigarette as one of the lads, DC Williams, laughs. He can feel College Boy’s eyes boring into the side of his head. He looks up sharply to meet his gaze, ignoring the sudden tug in his stomach. He’s got blue eyes. So very blue. “What?”</p><p>“Well, it’s a bit cheap, isn’t it?” His voice is quiet, clipped, just a trace of the north lingering around his words.</p><p>Peter’s grin vanishes.“He’d be right up your street, I suppose. Tabula Wasa.” He accidentally-on-purpose flicks ash all over College Boy’s trousers. “My Aunt Flo,” he says darkly.</p><p>From over his shoulder, he hears Thursday say, “If you’ve no work, Jakes, some will be found for you.”</p><p>“Sir.” He glares at College Boy and stalks off to his desk.</p><p> </p><p>He sits there, flicking his lighter on and off moodily, staring at the flame for the best part of an hour. A constable tries to approach him, report in hand, but he gives the poor bloke such a filthy look he practically runs away.</p><p>Is it injustice, or is it just unfair?</p><p>Actually, it’s fucking <em>embarrassing</em>. He could forgive Lott for nicking his job on a good day — more experience, closer with Thursday, better known throughout the force and all that — but Detective Constable E Morse can fuck right off. And Thursday’s already taken his side over Peter’s, two minutes in.</p><p>Detective Constable E Morse skitters around and out the station after Thursday, Peter glaring daggers into his back the whole time.</p><p>“Jealous, Sarge?” It’s Williams again, putting a mug of tea down in front of him.</p><p>He doesn’t respond, but snatches the tea out of William’s hands. Some splashes onto his fingers and he has to pretend it doesn’t sting like anything. He’s not jealous<em>. </em>He doesn’t get jealous, least of all jealous of jumped up college boys who think they’re above everyone else.</p><p>To his credit, Williams just laughs. “Everyone knows it should be you.”</p><p>It should be him. Everyone knows it. But it never is. It never fucking is.</p><p> </p><p>&amp;</p><p> </p><p>The next day shows a man with the back of his head blown off in a public toilet. It’s not exactly in Peter’s top ten ideal places to die, maybe coming in just under Buckingham Palace (after taking a bullet for the Queen, naturally. God, the medals they’d give him for <em>that</em>).</p><p>Dr DeBryn is there, which makes Peter’s day marginally better (as much as a day that starts off standing over a corpse can be made better), but so is College Boy. At least he looks like he’s about to collapse, so Peter’s got that over him. Why even become a copper if he can’t deal with a bit of death?</p><p>“Do we know who he was?” Thursday asks.</p><p>“No wallet on him, Sir. But the car’s registered to a Dr Cartwright. Got a practice in Florence Park with a…” He briefly checks his notes. “Dr Prentice.”</p><p>“Prentice?” College Boy pipes up.</p><p>“Yeah. Why?” It’s a lot more defensive than it needs to be, but he can’t really help it. Thursday shoots him a look, and he takes a long drag of his cigarette, dropping his gaze to the floor, something ugly and angry coiling in his stomach.</p><p>“I was there yesterday.” He turns to Thursday. “He’s the GP in that sudden death - Margaret Bell.”</p><p>DeBryn cuts in, then, putting Peter out of his misery with a lot of unnecessarily complicated medical talk that essentially boils down to <em>he got shot in the head</em>. Strange could’ve told them that, but he likes the way DeBryn says things — very dryly intellectual. There’s a part of him that wishes he could talk like that, but he figures it just comes with being a Doctor with a capital D.</p><p>DeBryn traces an imaginary line towards the shattered tiles. “And end up…” He pushes his tweezers into the gap, half a smile on his face. “Hey, as it were…” he holds up the bullet. “Presto.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s stood outside with College Boy, who currently seems to be trying to figure out the best way to shag the apparently abandoned bike leaning against the toilet wall, given how close he is to it. Peter sighs loudly, dropping his cigarette butt and twisting it into the ground with the bottom of his shoe. He stuffs his hands first in his jacket pockets, then in his trouser pockets, then takes them out again and lights another cigarette. College Boy looks up at him, eyebrows raised disapprovingly, and he glares back, his jaw clenched, daring him to say something.</p><p>They’re both distracted by Thursday rounding the corner with <em>Bwight</em> in tow, clearly in the middle of something, but they don’t keep their voices down, gladly in possession that specific kind of confidence only power brings.</p><p>“DC Morse is my bagman, Sir,” Thursday says, and Peter finds himself not liking the conversation at all.</p><p>“Morse may remain as your driver and <em>aide de camp</em>, but a car such as this requires an officer of experience or senior rank to co-ordinate the inquiry.”</p><p><em>Hear that? </em>Peter wants to say. S<em>enior. Fucking. Rank. </em>Maybe Bright isn’t that bad, after all.</p><p>“You’re giving primary consideration to this bicycle, I take it?” Bright continues, his attention now on College Boy, and briefly regales them with a story about a case where the killer left his bike at the scene. “You should be able to trace its owner from the frame number.”</p><p>“Really? In Oxford?”</p><p>Peter freezes, eyes glued on Bright. College Boy’s voice is soft but insolent, practically begging for a slap. God knows his old DS used to smack him about at every opportunity, especially when he challenged the miserable bastard like that. And this isn’t even just a Sergeant, this is the Chief Superintendent, for fuck’s sake!</p><p>Thursday leaps to his defence, shockingly, and Peter pretends to be looking back at the bike so he can get away with rolling his eyes so hard he sees his own brain. He’s not jealous. He’s not. (but Thursday’s never fought <em>his</em> corner like that).</p><p>College Boy carries on as if nothing happened. “He’ll also be an older man, and of limited means, possibly.”</p><p>“How’d you get to that, then?” Peter asks, genuinely curious.</p><p>“Well, the bike’s ancient, but well maintained,” he says, like Peter’s an idiot for missing the so glaringly obvious. So it’ll be like that, then. He turns back to Thursday, “Which points to thrift, I’d’ve thought.” He carries on rattling off everything about the man. Peter’s almost surprised he doesn’t know his address and bank details from the wear on the tyres. “We’re looking for a man of the cloth,” he finishes, slightly breathless.</p><p>Now there’s an excellent image. “A vicar? Shooting somebody in a lav?” He grins.</p><p>Bright seems to share his views, although he puts it slightly more eloquently. “I hope you’ll eliminate known criminals from your inquiries first, Thursday, before troubling any clergymen, what?” Bright slowly looks at them all, before landing on College Boy. “Really, Constable Morse. You should be on the halls.” And he turns on his highly-polished little heel and glides off.</p><p>Peter follows, trying his best not to laugh, which proves impossible when Thursday starts tearing College Boy a new one. Good. He bloody deserves it.</p><p> </p><p>&amp;</p><p> </p><p>The news that College Boy nicked the gas meter man spreads through the station like wildfire, and Peter does absolutely nothing to resist the urge to rip the shit out of him for it. He practically runs towards the cells, just catching him as he writes (scrawls, more like, his handwriting is awful) the bloke’s name on the stone tablet outside cell three.</p><p>“Made an arrest, then?” He says, cheerfully mocking. “We’ll hang the flags out.”</p><p>College Boy just gives him an icy glare, but doesn’t rise to it. And that’s a challenge if Peter’s ever gotten one.</p><p>The day slips away into another grey nothing, but the sunrise brings the best news that anyone could hope for. College Boy, for all his vast intellect and two-thirds of an Oxford education, <em>arrested the wrong man</em>. Oh, it’s like it’s Peter’s birthday.</p><p>He positions himself to get the best view of College Boy’s face when he realises his supposed thief has been released, leaning against a cell door with DC Williams. The little ginger dickhead rounds the corner and stumbles to a halt when he sees the very open door of cell three. He looks inside, every muscle in his body visibly tensing, before looking down the corridor and spotting Peter.</p><p>“Aye-aye!” He calls, Williams already spluttering with laughter. “The gas man cometh!"</p><p>Still that icy glare, still no rise, which takes all the fun out of it. He’ll get him soon.</p><p> </p><p>No matter how much College Boy annoys him, at least he has the good sense to pretend to be doing something other than flick his lighter on and off when Thursday appears at his desk, file in hand.</p><p>“Follow this up, would you?” He asks, handing the file over. It’s not like he has a choice, but at least it’s not typing up reports. “Morse reckons he’s got something.” Peter freezes. Thursday notices. “What?”</p><p>“I just don’t see why we have to go running round after <em>College Boy—</em>”</p><p>“That’s Detective Constable Morse to you, Sergeant,” Thursday cuts him off sharply, fixing him with a stare that makes him feel about two feet tall. “I won’t have that here, you understand? It’s insubordination.”</p><p><em>Insubordination?</em> He’s a fucking <em>constable</em>. “But—”</p><p>“Do you understand?”</p><p>No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand why all of Oxford is bending over backwards for one man, he doesn’t understand why he got his job snatched out from under him <em>again</em>, and he doesn’t understand why Detective Constable Morse is so much better than him. He feels like fucking crying. He takes a deep, shaky breath; he’s not going to cause a scene, he’s not going to embarrass himself more than he already has. “Yes. Sir.” It feels like his skin has shrunk in humiliation, his bones too big, too sharp and jostling to get out.</p><p>He spots Detective Constable Morse, perpetually wide-eyed and untidy, over Thursday’s shoulder, and he’s never hated anyone more.</p><p> </p><p>Peter stays late that night. He doesn’t want to, but he needs to. He’s sick to the back fucking teeth of Detective Constable Morse and of Thursday relentlessly defending him. It’s not <em>fair</em>.</p><p>(He’s leaning against the sleek, black car, waiting for Thursday, and he can just about taste his job as bagman, when Detective Constable Morse turns up, talking too quietly for Peter to be able to hear and too quickly for him to lipread. But he hears Thursday clearly enough. <em>Jakes will do.</em> It’s not exactly glowing praise, but it sends something warm through him, heavy and sweet like honey. In that moment, he needs to be Thursday’s bagman more than he needs air in his lungs. He makes a decision).</p><p>He’s halfway through his last cigarette when he finds the girl Detective Constable Morse is obsessed with, Pamela Walters’, record. She’s pretty enough, all that hair and big eyes, but she looks… unstable. Not exactly his type. He reads the details and smirks — <em>definitely</em> not his type. And a history of violence, coupled with her general dislike of her family, is all (he needs to turn the actual Chief Superintendent against Detective Constable Morse) they need to bring her in. It’s almost too easy.</p><p>By some small miracle, Bright’s office is unlocked and the station more or less deserted. No-one around to see him slip into Bright’s office, anyway. It’s somehow even neater than he expected: even his pencils are lined up, sharpened to perfection. He puts Pamela’s record smack in the middle of the desk, so it’s impossible to miss.</p><p>He doesn’t exactly go through Bright’s things, but he wouldn’t be a copper (and a Detective Sergeant at that, unlike certain jumped-up little university types) if he didn’t have a bit of a poke around.</p><p>Bright smokes menthols, judging by his ashtray, which Peter finds funny although he’s not exactly sure why. Lots of stationary on his desk (boring), lots of scarily official-looking papers in the drawers (briefly interesting, but very quickly boring), but the top left drawer is completely empty, even though it sounds like something is shifting around when he opens it, and it seems a lot shallower on the inside than the others. Now <em>this</em> is what he’s talking about.</p><p>He runs his fingers around the edge of the drawer, searching for a gap, or a bit of string, or—</p><p>Something just outside Bright’s office creaks and he jumps, accidentally pressing down on the far back corner of the drawer. The wood smoothly lifts up and, keeping his eyes glued to the door, he takes it out, resting it on the desk itself. He silently counts to five before breathing out and looking down.</p><p>It’s a bit disappointing, actually. He was hoping for a gun, or drugs, or sordid love letters, or something a bit more exciting than a silver zippo, an old book, a fancy box of shortbread, and a black and white photograph in a simple silver frame.</p><p>The book proclaims itself a prayer book in curly, golden letters, so he ignores that. But the photo is of an immaculately made-up woman, presumably a younger Mrs Bright, smiling prettily with a grumpy-looking baby in her arms, holding its fat little hand up in a wave to the camera. It’s… odd. Between the photo and the shortbread, it makes Bright seem a little more human. Peter had no idea he had kids, or that he snacks in secret. The latter is a much funnier image; Bright just seems like he survives purely on his menthols and the sense of smug superiority being posh brings.</p><p>He goes to pick the photo up for a proper look (and to see if the lighter works, and maybe to steal some shortbread), but he hears footsteps coming closer and decides to just get the fuck out.</p><p> </p><p>&amp;</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s flat feels too dark and too small. He paces around like a caged tiger, cigarette burning between his lips and drink in hand, unable to stay still.</p><p>He opens the window, he closes it again, he sits down, he stands back up, and he sits down, and he stands back up, and he opens the window, he closes it again, and he jabs the lit end of his cigarette into the back of his wrist. The pain is instant, so sharp and hot it feels cold, and it lets him think. He drops down onto the sofa, a little vodka sloshing out of the glass and down his wrist. A drop runs over the cigarette burn and he nearly chokes, biting down hard on the inside of cheek. But he can deal with it. Burns and smoke and alcohol are much easier to deal with than whatever ugly thing writhes inside of him when Thursday gives him that look; when he’s being talked to like he couldn’t possibly be on the same level as an Oxford boy, even one who fucked off in the middle of his course; when everyone’s eyes drift past him to fix on Detective Constable Morse.</p><p>That ugly thing curls upwards towards his chest, white-hot and heavy, wrapping around his throat, his breath coming shorter and sharper, trapped and stuttering in his lungs. He can’t think. He doesn’t want to think. He wants everything to go back to normal, he wants what’s rightfully his, he wants to stop being driven mad with embarrassment and anger and frustration. He just wants relief.</p><p>What did he <em>do?</em></p><p>A sudden, painful clarity. Those so very blue eyes, wide and wary or cold and haughty, staring at him across rooms, from behind Thursday’s shoulder, over the endless dead that crawl their way into his everyday life. He feels dizzy. Everything is unfair and unjust and it’s not like he helps himself, is it, and he sits at his desk watching sparks fly and flames blossom from his lighter, insides burning with humiliation because everyone knows it should’ve been him but it never ever is, and —and — and — and he is so unbearably, agonisingly fucking <em>jealous.</em></p><p>He grabs the nearest thing to him — a half-read Agatha Christie paperback — and hurls it into his kitchen sink. It takes out a chunk of the plaster as it bounces off the wall and into the basin. He smiles despite himself as he holds his lighter to it — it refuses to go down without a fight, too. The paper catches instantly, the fire spreading frighteningly quickly, pages curling and blackening and crumbling into ash and drifting through empty space into the sink. He holds the book, enraptured and utterly terrified by the way the characters on the cover distort into funhouse mirror reflections, until the fire starts biting at his palm; he drops it back down into the sink, some of the stronger pages shattering into ashes on impact, his hand curling into his chest. It hurts, but he can deal with it. He picks his drink back up and takes a sip, wincing at the taste, carefully leaning against his kitchen table.</p><p>And so he stays still, staring at the flames dancing in the sink, finally able to breathe again, hand aching and jealous down to his core.</p><p> </p><p>&amp;</p><p> </p><p>Another day, another dead man.</p><p>Public conveniences, church, what’s the difference to the dead and the ones who stand over them, scratching their heads or cutting them open?</p><p>DeBryn rattles off the things he immediately notices (i.e. he’s been shot in the back, three times) and Peter scribbles everything down in his notebook like it’s the ten commandments. Thou shalt praise the Lord. Thou shalt not tell lies. Thou shalt get out of the bloody way when you’re being shot at, for christ’s sake.</p><p>Two sets of footsteps from behind them, one definitely Thursday’s, meaning the other must be the boy wonder.</p><p>“Sir,” He says, stealing a furtive glance back at Detective Constable Morse. He looks like he’s about to faint. And like he has no idea what a comb is. “Reverend Ranulph Monkford. Been in the Parish about five years.”</p><p>Thursday nods. “Morse saw him yesterday. It was his bike out at Godstow.” Of course it bloody was. “Who found him?”</p><p>“Housekeeper, Sir. A Miss Scoby. Arrived to find the vicarage has been turned over and Monkford missing. I’ve taken a preliminary statement.” It means he’s useful, that he does his job. “Not himself at all yesterday, she says. Very distracted. Kept going on about not talking.”</p><p>“Not talking?”</p><p>“‘Do not talk at meals. Do not talk traveling.’ There were more, but those were the ones Miss Scoby could remember.” He snaps his notebook shut. “I wondered if it might be some religious thing. Like monks.”</p><p>Instead of blessing him with a response, Thursday follows after DeBryn, who’s already walking out, filling him in as he goes. Peter’s always wondered how such a short man can walk so quickly. “Killed between eight and eleven last night. Three shots. Two in the back, which sent him off the ladder, followed by the <em>coup de grace</em> from close range.”</p><p>As DeBryn leaves, Bright enters, the expression on his face so tightly enraged Peter finds himself taking half a step back and bumping into a pew.</p><p>“Looks like Morse was right about the clergyman, Sir,” Thursday says, deliberately oblivious or just not caring.</p><p>“But not much else,” Bright snaps. “It transpires Dr Cartwright’s sister-in-law has a criminal record, as even the most cursory examination of her history would have revealed.”</p><p>Thursday shoots Peter that look again, and he feels something frighteningly close to <em>ashamed</em>.</p><p>“Juvenile assault upon some poor orderly at the sanatorium to which she was confined,” Bright continues, simmering with anger.</p><p>“Bad?” Thursday asks.</p><p>“She stabbed him in the groin!” Even the dead man winces. “But how bad it was is hardly the point. It should’ve come to light.”</p><p>“I’ll talk to him.”</p><p>“No,” Bright says firmly. “He’s had enough rope.”</p><p>And now, they’re even.</p><p> </p><p>&amp;</p><p> </p><p>Morse is at his desk, looking a bit like a kicked dog, sifting through piles of papers when Peter comes through. He wasn’t exactly listening at the door when Bright started laying into him, but he’s fairly confident that literally the entire population of South England heard it, and it was not pretty. He actually started feeling quite sorry for Morse at around about the ten minute mark.</p><p>“Not looking too good, is it?” He says smugly, grabbing what evidence he was sent to get off the table and shoving it into the cardboard box in his arms.</p><p>“You won’t get a match,” Morse replies.</p><p>He rolls his eyes, not bothering to turn and face him. “How about we let Ballistics do their job?”</p><p>“She steals things. I’ve seen her. <em>La Gazza Ladra, </em>the family’s pet name for her as a child.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “The thieving magpie. It doesn’t mean anything.”</p><p>“It means she’s going away for life.” He shakes the box slightly so everything lies flat, and starts to walk towards the interrogation room. “No alibi, Morse, for Cartwright or the night Monkford died. Old man’s sweating her now.” He can’t keep the childish, biting tone from colouring his words, just as he can’t keep from relishing in Morse’s expression. Kicked dog might’ve been <em>too</em> accurate.</p><p>“Well make sure he takes a look at her wrists, then.”</p><p>That stops him in his tracks. He looks at Morse, knowing exactly where he’s going but not wanting to let on.</p><p>“Unless I’m much mistaken,” he says in a way which means he knows he is not, “she’s already tried to kill herself once. I imagine she took the gun intending to try again.” His voice is softer, not pitying but sympathetic, almost sad. And Peter very nearly finds himself warming to Morse, before he carries on, now deeply patronising, “It’s called reasonable doubt.”</p><p>Arrogant little bastard.</p><p> </p><p>It has to be her, Pamela Walters. It has to be. What she lacks in alibis, she makes up for with a history of violence, mental instability, and a passionate dislike of a man who just so happens to be dead. It can’t be anyone else. He knows it, Thursday knows it, and Ms Walters seems to know they know it. She is, in a word, buggered. She doesn’t confess, but they’ll get it out of her soon.</p><p>She’s struggling desperately against the uniforms trying to herd her into the cell, shouting for Morse, who in turn is trying to get her to calm down. She doesn’t, but the door slams shut anyway. Morse stares at them, the heart on his sleeve bloodied and broken. Peter doesn’t feel bad. (or he tries not to, anyway).</p><p> </p><p>&amp;</p><p> </p><p>It’s like Christmas has come early the next day when Constable Strange drags the gas meter man into the nick.</p><p>The thief gets hauled off to the cells, and Strange hands him a cloth drawstring bag, heavy and jangling with coins. “Had this on him. Wouldn’t say how much.”</p><p>“Someone’ll have to count it, then,” he says absently, weighing the bag in his hands. Then a brilliant idea comes to him and he grins so widely Strange looks nervous. Christmas <em>and </em>his birthday all in one. “I know just the man for the job.”</p><p>Strange cottons on quickly, and just sighs. Peter does not give a fuck.</p><p> </p><p>He smirks as he drops the massive bag of coins onto Morse’s desk, making him just about jump out of his skin. “Constable Strange nicked the gas meter man. Better get counting. There’s a fair few shillings in there,” he explains, loving every second of Morse’s confused, and then horrified, expression. “Police work, Morse!” He says as condescendingly as physically possible, leaning down so his face is less than a foot away from Morse’s. “It’s not Gideon’s Way, I know, but it’s what gets them up the steps.” He claps Morse on the back harder than he would if he was just being friendly, and clears off. He’s got more important things to be doing than counting coins.</p><p>Namely, getting back down to the church and going over the crime scene again. He doesn’t really see the point, but Thursday wants him to, so he will. Because he actually follows orders. He grabs Strange on his way out and drives them to the church in silence. He doesn’t mind — he’d rather silence than awkward small talk. They pull up outside the church, not bothering to park properly. He plonks Strange by the gate with strict instructions to tell everyone to piss off, and heads inside.</p><p>Peter’s never been that keen on churches. They’re too still, too quiet. Even the air feels heavy. His shoes click against the highly polished floor and he shivers. He runs his fingers over the smooth, varnished wood of the nearest pew, tracing all the lines and grains, appreciating the simple beauty in it for a moment before he realises he’s being daft.</p><p>He goes over the murder in his mind, standing at different places and trying to figure out the angles, the reason. Why shoot a vicar in the back? Well, he supposes, why not? Pamela doesn’t seem to have a particularly strong stomach, groin-stabbing non withstanding, so it would make sense. Monkford sees her kill Cartwright, somehow, and she kills him when his back’s turned. She’s probably an awful shot, especially if she was nervous or reluctant to, you know, murder a vicar, so the three shots checks out. And they found a gun in her drawer, along with a box of bullets. It’s so clearly her he doesn’t really see why he needs to be here much longer, but a really solid bit of evidence so the trial goes smoothly wouldn’t be unwelcome.</p><p>Obviously, it doesn’t help that Morse is so doggedly on this girl’s side, meaning Thursday’s wavering slightly. He’s seen lots of coppers like that — the second a pretty, slightly sad girl is in front of them they lose all sense. Christ, he’s even been guilty of it once or twice, not that he’d ever admit it. Morse just needs to get a grip, then he might be alright. <em>Might</em> be.</p><p>He opens and closes a couple of hymn books, flicks through the odd bible, hoping something useful might fall out. Like a full, signed confession, for example. It doesn’t. He does a couple of laps around the pews, pokes at the altar, nothing. May as well go for a quick smoke, then. Strange might even have something useful to say.</p><p>He thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him as he goes outside and spots Morse coming out of a nearby house. Morse looks directly at him, his so very blue eyes so very defiant.</p><p>Absolutely fucking not.</p><p>“The Hell’s he up to?” He mutters in Strange’s general direction, not bothering to wait for an answer as he stalks towards the car, quickly getting in and speeding back towards the nick. He’s had enough of <em>College Boy</em> doing whatever he wants. He’s going to <em>pay.</em> (and if he has any sense, he’ll be long gone by the time Peter gets back).</p><p>Within ten minutes, he’s following Bright and Thursday back to the church. It’s with a quiet glee that he hurries after them — even Thursday looked pissed off. And if he thought Bright was on the warpath before…</p><p>He’s going to get his job back, and that’s all he really cares about. He doesn’t have time to think about Morse’s inevitable future as either on desk duty for life or, more likely, fired.</p><p>Morse is standing at the front of the church, staring up at the hymn numbers, Strange lingering to one side, apparently trying to melt into the brickwork.</p><p>“Perhaps you’d care to explain just what it is you’re doing here.” Bright’s voice rings out, echoing clearly around the building, but Morse doesn’t seem alarmed.</p><p>“I think I know who killed Cartwright and Monkford, sir,” he says, more composed and sure of himself than he’s ever been before.</p><p>“Think, or know?” Thursday asks, and Peter feels a sudden drop in his stomach, like he’s on the very edge of a cliff.</p><p>“Know.”</p><p>Pamela didn’t do it. It’s like a kick in the teeth.</p><p>Morse starts talking, and Bright butts in until he, too, starts to realise Morse is right. He doesn’t want to believe it, and says as much, “What are you going to do, produce some eyewitness from thin air?"</p><p>“As a matter of fact, sir, we do have a witness. The Reverend Monkford.”</p><p>Peter can’t resist. “Shall I send back to the station for a Ouija board?”</p><p>“All right, Jakes,” Thursday chastises, and nods at Morse to carry on.</p><p>Well, that’s him told. He keeps his mouth shut as Morse builds the case, throwing in little details Peter either completely ignored or just didn’t notice, and he doesn’t know whether to be pissed off or impressed. Morse starts talking faster, more insistent, untangling the web in such a way that it sounds so easy, like they’ve all been so stupid to miss it. There’s a fervour in those so very blue eyes as he gets Strange to write out the names of elements, apparent clues left in the hymn numbers, and the church falls so very silent as they slowly spell out W.C.L.A.R.K.</p><p>Fucking hell.</p><p>Peter grudgingly settles for impressed.</p><p>“Bloody hell, matey!” Strange laughs, awed. “That’s…”</p><p>“Elementary,” Thursday smoothly supplies.</p><p>And just like that, the moment is ruined. Peter looks at him, exasperated, and the old man looks very pleased with himself indeed.</p><p>God, he needs a drink.</p><p> </p><p>&amp;</p><p> </p><p>A couple of weeks later and the buzz around Morse finally dies down after everyone realises he’s a right dickhead, meaning life can finally carry on.</p><p>In that time, Peter arrests a bloke for a string of burglaries, breaks up countless fights, tracks down a couple who faked their own death in an insurance scam, has the shit cross-examined out of him in court by some snotty lawyer, and nearly gets his jaw broken in a pub brawl. Morse, presumably, just drives Thursday around and looks sad. It’s incredibly annoying.</p><p>What’s even more annoying, actually, is that he seems to have picked up the habit of clicking his pen non-stop. It’s a bit like Peter with his lighter, except boring and unbelievably irritating. Peter’s thrown things at him — just crumpled-up paper and the odd pencil, he’s not a monster — to try and get him to stop it, but he always misses.</p><p>A case that seems interesting rolls into the station on Tuesday: a girl gone missing on her twentieth birthday, no note, no witnesses, her room overturned, best friend Victoria nowhere to be found, and the boyfriend acting very suspiciously. It only <em>seems</em> interesting because, as Peter finds out after two hours of trying to find any sort of lead, it is in fact the most frustrating thing on the planet. Morse seems to be having better luck, though, because of course he bloody does.</p><p>Hour four of this utter bullshit and Peter’s seconds away from slamming his head on his desk out of pure, mind-numbing vexation when Thursday tells him to get his coat on — Morse thinks he’s got something. He’s so grateful for the chance to leave his desk he forgets to be annoyed.</p><p>That is until he finds out the place they’re going is an hour and half away, and sees Thursday toss the car keys to Morse. Jesus Christ, ninety entire minutes of being in an enclosed space Morse and, even worse, ninety entire minutes of being subjected to Morse’s driving. He wonders if it’s too late to go back to plan A, which is slamming his head against his desk until someone else finds the girl.</p><p>“You’re driving, are you?” He asks patronisingly.</p><p>“Jakes,” Thursday warns, already putting his seatbelt on.</p><p>Morse just gives him a smug, sarcastic little smile, and it takes everything in him to not twat the little ginger prick into the middle of next week. The aforementioned little ginger prick opens the door behind the driver’s side and gestures for him to get in, that infuriating smile still on his face. “Sergeant.”</p><p>Before Peter can beat him to death with one of the windscreen wipers, however, Thursday shouts at them to <em>get on with it!</em></p><p>So, in the single pettiest action of his life, he walks around the car and gets in the other side. He catches Thursday’s disbelieving stare in the rearview mirror and holds it on the verge of defiantly. Morse slams the door shut, scowling like anything, and they’re off on what promises to be the longest car journey in all of human history.</p><p>Thursday fills him in on the details as they drive through Oxford. The girl, a Miss Annie Chambers, is apparently a bit of a weirdo in that she is obsessed exploring old, abandoned houses, and had a couple of photos of the place they were headed in particular, one even framed. It makes sense, really, but it is deeply fucking annoying that Morse got there before him.</p><p>Morse takes over then, telling him about all the little, seemingly insignificant details he found when looking through her locker at work (cashier at the offy, apparently), and Peter makes snide comments where he can, much to Thursday’s chagrin. But it is funny seeing Morse get frustrated, and even better, it gets easier to wind him up as the more time passes. He even starts snapping back, which is genuinely amazing until Thursday gives him a very pointed look and he stops.</p><p>He takes the opportunity for a smoke break, he’s gasping for one anyway. He’s got a cigarette between his lips, just about to light up when Thursday suddenly says:</p><p>“Ah-ah, not in my car, Jakes.”</p><p>He takes the cigarette out his mouth so he can talk properly, snapping his lighter shut, and silently prays to God and all his angels in heaven that this is some kind of sick joke. “Sir?”</p><p>“No ash on my seats.”</p><p>“But…” he starts, more than a bit pathetically, trailing off when he notices Morse’s shoulders shaking slightly, like he’s trying not to laugh. Someone’s going in the canal when they get back, and it will not be Peter. Not again, anyway.</p><p>“Don’t argue.” Thursday, as ever, remains deliberately oblivious to Morse’s insubordinate bullshit.</p><p>He sighs huffily, but puts the cigarette away when Thursday starts turning around to face him — he doesn’t particularly feel like dying. Yet. “Sir.” He checks his watch; only another hour and ten minutes to go, which is <em>great</em>. Just fucking <em>great</em>.</p><p>What feels like a week but is actually just fifteen minutes later, Peter ends up flicking his lighter on and off, just for something to do with his hands. Morse keeps glancing at him in the rearview mirror, his expression getting progressively more annoyed. Good.</p><p>“Stop it,” he eventually says, somehow nervous and bold at the same time.</p><p>“Why?” He flicks it on, off, on, off, staring Morse dead in the eyes.</p><p>He swallows, gaze darting between the road and Peter. “It’s distracting.”</p><p>“Is it fu—”</p><p>“Jakes!” Thursday cuts him off sharpish, head whipping around to give him <em>that </em>look.</p><p>He manages to maintain eye contact for a personal best of three seconds, before staring down at his shoes. “Sorry, Sir.”</p><p>“And put that lighter away. I know what you’re like.”</p><p>“Yes, Sir.” <em>No Sir, three bags full, Sir,</em> he thinks as he shoves the lighter in his pocket and slumps further down in his seat, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.</p><p> </p><p>They’re only ten minutes away, or they would be if Morse didn’t decide to take the scenic route, so it’s more like twenty. Peter’s on the very edge of going completely insane. He’s bored, he needs a cigarette, and his legs are too long to be in the backseat of a car for this amount of time. The car hits a pothole so hard Peter nearly cracks his head off the ceiling.</p><p>“You’re a terrible driver,” he says, ignoring Thursday’s sigh. “How’d you get this job, anyway?”</p><p>“By merit,” he says coolly, glancing over at Thursday, who just nods once.</p><p>“Oh, like when you arrested the wrong man?”</p><p>Morse glares at him in the rearview mirror and mutters under his breath so Peter can’t hear him, like a coward.</p><p>“Say something, College Boy?”</p><p>“Would you two just pack it in!” Thursday snaps. When they both shut up, sharpish, and stay that way, he shakes his head and stares backs out the window, mumbling, “worse than my bloody kids.”</p><p> </p><p>They arrive at the house fifteen minutes later, and there’s a lit cigarette in Peter’s hand the second the car stops. The house would’ve been beautiful, all red brickwork and big windows, had it not been for the half-missing roof and blackened scorch marks around the second floor. The sun is starting to set behind it, the sky on fire and the colours bleeding through the building.</p><p>“So she’s here, then?” Peter says doubtfully from around his cigarette, stretching out and nearly groaning in satisfaction when something in his shoulder cracks.</p><p>“Apparently so,” Thursday answers, and they all walk inside.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a little creepy, being inside the hollow shell of a house, somewhere so empty. There’s broken glass all over the floor, graffiti all over the walls — peace, love, and drugs — and no sign of Annie Chambers. Thursday tells them to split up and look for her, Peter upstairs, he and Morse downstairs.</p><p>He calls out for Annie as he climbs up the worryingly creaky stairs, promptly getting a mouthful of cobweb, which is fucking disgusting. He’s so preoccupied by trying to get the cobweb off his face that he almost doesn’t notice a chunk of the step he was just standing on give way with a loud groan and shatter on the wood below, throwing his balance as he wildly flails before just about grabbing the banister and hanging on for dear life. When he’s sure that he’s not going to fall to his death, he risks a glance behind him. The step is half gone, now just a mess on the ground, and no doubt Peter would’ve been too if the banister didn’t hold. That was far, far too close. He taps each step with the toe of his shoe twice before standing on it as he goes.</p><p>When he makes it up the stairs, Morse is already poking around the corridor, which pisses him right off. Had he not listened to Thursday? Peter upstairs, Morse downstairs with Thursday.</p><p>“What’re you doing?” He asks, probably slightly louder than necessary, making Morse jump.</p><p>“Looking for Annie,” replies the jumpiest copper on the force, pushing open a door at random, his palm coming away covered in thin lines of black dust.</p><p>“Thank you, Sherlock.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re meant to be downstairs.”</p><p>Morse looks at him, confused. “Aren’t you?”</p><p>“No,” Peter says slowly, wondering if he’s being deliberately daft.</p><p>“Thursday said…” He trails off, turning away, clearly realising he’s been a tit but not wanting to show it. “Christ.”</p><p>Peter starts to make a comment about Oxford obviously not being all it’s cracked up to be, but Morse walks into the room. Annoyed, Peter follows him, but suddenly stops in the doorframe.</p><p>The room is pitch black with soot, the walls charred, the windows shattered, a heavy layer of ash over the floor; a scene of utter devastation. Images of fire raging through the room, consuming it whole flash through Peter’s mind, and he’s frozen with fear.</p><p>Then Morse takes a step forward, and the floorboard lets out a loud groan.</p><p>Without a second thought, he reaches out and yanks Morse towards him by the back of his coat, then around the waist and spinning them out the room in one frantic motion, the floor where he was standing just a second ago giving way completely, sending wood and ash and dust plummeting to the ground below with a thundering crash.</p><p>A beat.</p><p>They stand statue-still, Morse gripping Peter’s sleeves so hard his knuckles are bright white, trembling so badly he wouldn’t be able to stay standing if he wasn’t being held up. He lets out a shaky sigh and rests his head against Peter’s shoulder.</p><p>Peter should stand him up properly, tell him to pull himself together, but instead he just holds Morse tighter. His eyes flutter shut briefly, trying to block out everything but the feeling of Morse, alive, against him.</p><p>Thursday’s panicked voice echoes from somewhere downstairs, calling their names, breaking the silence.</p><p>He relaxes his grip on Morse, who stumbles slightly before pulling himself upright. He fixes those so very blue eyes on Peter, and a feeling he can’t quite name surges up inside him; so he falls back on what he’s used to.</p><p>“The Hell are you playing at!” He shouts, and Morse flinches.</p><p>“I thought I saw—”</p><p>“I don’t care what you thought you saw! You nearly—” <em>you nearly died</em> “—you nearly got us both killed!”</p><p>For a second, he looks hurt. Actually, genuinely hurt, and Peter feels awful, but then that icy glare comes back and he just storms past, taking the stairs back to the guvnor two at a time, and the feeling vanishes as quickly as it came.</p><p>“You’re welcome!” He calls bitterly after Morse, but he gets no response. Prick.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently, while they were busy nearly fucking dying, Thursday found a note pinned on an old, dirty mattress, signed by none other than Annie Chambers. She wrote that she’s just fed up of Oxford, of her job, of her immature prick of a boyfriend (harsh), of everything (fair), and is running away to America with her lover, Vicky. Peter thinks Vicky is a stupid name for a bloke for a good five minutes before it dawns on him. Honestly, good for her.</p><p>Case closed.</p><p> </p><p>The three of them walk back to the car in strained silence, Morse striding out in front, the keys clutched tightly in his hand, Peter lagging behind, hands in his pockets. He gets in the driver’s seat quickly, slamming the door with entirely too much force behind him. Thursday just shakes his head.</p><p>Just as they’re about to get in the car, the old man turns to him. “Jakes?”</p><p>“Sir.” He’s expecting, maybe, <em>thanks for saving ginger’s life,</em> or <em>good job on not dying</em>.</p><p>What he gets is, “Quit sulking.”</p><p>That takes him aback. Peter Jakes does not <em>sulk. </em>“I’m not—”</p><p>But Thursday’s already in the car.</p><p> </p><p>Peter spends most of the journey back in, what a lesser man would call, a massive sulk. He just stares out the window, watching the night roll by, not even having the energy to tease Morse about his objectively terrible night driving. And it is <em>terrible.</em> Thursday attempts to make very stilted conversation, but quickly gives up when he realises he’s only going to get one word answers out of them for the foreseeable and sticks on the radio. Morse perks up, largely because it’s his awful caterwauling rubbish, softly humming along.</p><p>Once they’re mostly clear of the winding, bumpy country roads, the smooth tarmac flashing beneath them in steady intervals of gentle, golden light and darkness, Thursday’s breathing slowly gets heavier, more even, until he lets out a gentle snore and Morse quietly turns the radio down.</p><p>They carry on like that for while, Peter occasionally stealing a glance at Morse, the light and dark dancing across his hands, his shoulders, illuminating the details of his hopelessly messy hair and sharpening what little of his face can be made out — the very edge of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, and when he turns to briefly check on Thursday, the tip of his nose, the curve of his lips.</p><p>It’s hard for Peter to be jealous of him when he’s like this, all soft and quiet, focused on the road. He’s not a bad bloke when he shuts up and lets himself be.</p><p>Thursday suddenly sighs and says, too loud for the car, “Get out my bloody sandwiches.”</p><p>Peter has to bite down on his lip, hard, to stop himself from laughing out loud. Looking at Morse, he seems to be having the same problem. Their eyes meet in the mirror and Peter can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, before they both dissolve into silent laughter, tears springing to Peter’s eyes with the effort of staying quiet, his ribs feeling on the verge of breaking, Morse having to drive one-handed and bite down on one of his knuckles. They both look away, compose themselves, and then accidentally make eye contact and start laughing all over again.</p><p>After a few minutes and a harrowing couple of seconds where Morse nearly runs a red light, they’re both able to breathe without the threat of dying laughing and waking up their deeply asleep guvnor.</p><p>Morse focuses on the road. Peter focuses on Morse.</p><p>He’s never met someone so cold, so stuck up, and so bloody needy at the same time. And even though his whole demeanour makes Peter want to put his own head through a brick wall, there’s something that keeps pulling him back. He tells himself it’s because it’s funny to see Morse frustrated, as penance for stealing his job, and he’s easy to wind up, which just makes it funnier, but there’s something that lingers in air between them, emboldened by the cover of darkness, something not so sharp-edged and not so simple.</p><p>It’s utterly maddening.</p><p>Peter can feel Morse staring at him in the rearview mirror. He only means to glance up and check he’s not just being paranoid, but when he meets Morse’s gaze, he recognises the look in those so very blue eyes without even meaning to.</p><p>Brilliant. Just what they needed; another lost boy.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i got mad carried away with this lmao i promise the rest of it will not be a) case fics and b) nine hundred years long (unless u want that???)</p><p>hope u enjoyed :D</p><p>(like 80% of the dialogue is from Girl! case fic n all that!!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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